


Shadows Behind the Mask

by consulting_vulcan_jedi_detective



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Fantasy, Gen, Human Names Used, Ivan sometimes being an unsocialized asshole, M/M, Magic, Mentions of Rape, Really fucking rocky relationship, Royalty, male!Ukraine - Freeform, sorcerer!Ivan, wizard!Alfred
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-09
Updated: 2018-07-09
Packaged: 2018-10-29 21:01:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 15,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10862007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/consulting_vulcan_jedi_detective/pseuds/consulting_vulcan_jedi_detective
Summary: In a nicer story, the talented Alfred takes his place as court wizard to the great, benevolent King Renat in the kingdom of Rus, and together they vanquish a sadistic, sorcererous usurper before riding off into the sunset as the snow melts. (But this is not that story, and Alfred is not quite as talented as he thinks, and Renat is not Renat, and anyway the snow never melts in Rus because the sadistic, sorcerous usurper thinks it looks pretty.)





	1. Tea and Paint

The people of Rusya City hail Alfred with wild fanfare when he arrives. There are city folk lining the streets as deep as they can pack themselves, and there is music playing cheerfully, and even _fireworks_. The amazing thing is that the enthusiasm is genuine, as is the pride Alfred sees in the faces of the people he passes. The Russi love their country, and much of this is because of their king.

Renat has ruled for twenty years. He is strong and just, Alfred has heard people say. He has protected Rus from invasion, he has taken back land lost during his father’s and grandfather’s reigns, he has restored the capital city to its glory of old. None go hungry in the country, and city criminals are caught quickly and put away.

The king is great much because he employs the best wizards, they say. And Alfred _is_ the best, the cleverest student to study under Arthur Kirkland in the West. He’s battled dragons and riddled with sphinxes and hexed his fair share of mischievous imps. He’s outflamed phoenixes. He’s cut heads off of hydras for laughs. In short, the only kind of magical monster he hasn’t faced is the human kind, the sorcerer kind, but nobody in his right mind invites immortal practitioners of dark magic over to see if he can beat them, not even Alfred Jones. But Rusya City is too magically fortified for a sorcerer to sneak in without setting off an awful lot of alarms.

Alfred isn’t here to fight monsters, anyway. He is here to advise the king, to strengthen the city wards, to lend magical assistance on the battlefield if it is ever needed. It’s a good job, court wizard is. And Alfred is particularly looking forward to meeting King Renat.

The man himself comes to greet him in person as he clatters into the courtyard at the front of the palace. Alfred stops in front of the greeting crowd, smiles sunnily after he dismounts, and bows courteously.

Renat is tall, with pale hair, beginning to grey gracefully, that falls freely just above his shoulders. His eyes are warm and blue and welcoming. He looks kind and friendly yet still every inch the total image of a king. Alfred can see why people like him.

“Alfred Jones!” the king says warmly as Alfred stands. Renat extends a hand and Alfred, surprised at the informality of the gesture, takes it. The other man’s grip is strong, his skin cool. “It’s wonderful to meet you at last. Shall we go inside? We’ve prepared a feast in your honor for tonight, but I’d hoped to become acquainted with you first,” Renat says, smiling.

Alfred can’t help but smile, too. The man’s personality is magnetic, and his energy is surprising for a man of his age. He’d been near thirty years of age when he’d taken the throne, and from what Alfred has heard, his dedication to Rus has not dwindled a jot in the time since then.

Toni, Alfred’s mare, is taken away by a servant, and they go inside. The palace is gorgeously furnished, with walls covered with immense tapestries that are fading in color but still beautiful, and with lights hung from the ceiling and on the walls every five paces.

They pass by a wall lined with painted portraits, and Alfred slows, lingering behind as the king and his entourage walk on.

The portraits are signed by different painters, but they are all incredibly skilled and lifelike. Some are of kings alone, some of a king with his queen, and some with a whole family. The last painting in the row is of the latter kind.

There is a king, not Renat, sitting in an ornate chair with plush cushions and gleaming, jeweled adornments. He is heavily bearded and his eyes are stern. Standing beside him is a woman, the queen, who looks to the painter with violet eyes and a beautiful smile. Her hand rests on the bend of her husband’s arm. Behind the couple are their three children.

The girl on the left looks younger than ten years old, but her eyes, the color inherited from her mother, are solemn and seeing. Her pale, straight hair falls behind her back. There is a white bow tied on top of her head.

The boy in the middle is the tallest of the three. His hair is a shade darker than his siblings’, and his eyes are a deep blue. His smile is kind, soft. This is Renat as a teenager, Alfred realizes.

The other son looks physically most like his little sister, but where her eyes are penetrating, his are amused, almost secretive. His face is handsome, touched by traces of baby fat.

There are plenty of stories about King Renat, but there are just as many about his younger brother, Ivan. Ivan isn’t around anymore.

King Moroz had had three royal children. His firstborn had been a dutiful son and a kindhearted brother. His only daughter, the third child, had been a sullen but clever and beautiful young woman. She’d run off as a teenager to marry the aging monarch of nearby Byela who’d let her rule in his stead and then passed away before three years had gone by.

The second child had been Ivan, devilishly handsome, wickedly charming Ivan, Ivan who’d seduced ambassadors’ daughters into bed in order to negotiate the most favorable arrangements for Rus, Ivan who’d once stopped the would-be assassin of his sister by forcing a silver fork down his throat, Ivan who would have been Renat’s first court wizard but who’d ended up a sorcerer and Moroz’s murderer. Alfred has heard all of the stories. There are very few who are too sad that Ivan is now dead, and very many who are quite proud of their King Renat for his first great act of valor in slaying his brother.

“Master Jones!” someone calls from farther down the hallway, and Alfred jogs to catch up.

•

“Will you me about yourself?” King Renat asks, pouring a cup of tea and passing it to Alfred. He appreciates that the king is polite enough to make it sound like a request.

Alfred accepts the cup and sits.

They’re in the king’s personal quarters, the sitting room. It’s spacious, less decorated than the more public areas of the palace. The chairs are quite comfortable.

“Well,” Alfred begins, “I grew up in the Anglish colonies. My gift became apparent when I was ten, and I learned from books sent over from Anglia.”

The king leans forward on his forearms, eyes interested. “You didn’t find a master then?”

Alfred smiles. “The Anglish law is the same as it is everywhere else. Everyone with the magical gift has to be trained properly. But I wrote to the council in Anglia and said that I wasn’t going to move across the ocean just because they wanted me to, and eventually they just sent me the books and told me to stay in touch. I finished school in the colonies when I was fifteen, and then I was given the opportunity to study under Arthur Kirkland. _Then_ I moved to Anglia,” he explains.

Renat smiles back, looking pleased. “You have an independent spirit,” he comments. It’s not a criticism.

“I do,” Alfred admits. “I’ve also learned to be flexible, though.”

“Good,” the king says. “What about now? What are your interests?”

“Well,” Alfred begins, “I do a lot of tinkering with spells. I read some books, mostly novels. I like to look at the stars quite a lot. And I try to keep in shape. I enjoy swordplay.” He tries to drop the last casually, but King Renat catches it nevertheless. Everyone always does.

“Swordplay?” the king questions, tilting his head slightly. “For exercise only, or for defense?”

Alfred shrugs, face pinking. “I guess wizards aren’t supposed to need anything but magic, but I think I would have been a soldier if I hadn’t had magic. I enjoy casual sparring, but I can also more than hold my own in a real fight. It’s not quite respectable, I know. I hope that won’t be a problem,” he says sheepishly.

The king actually looks happily surprised. “There will be no problem,” he assures Alfred. “Our hobbies are not so different, in fact. I would be delighted if you joined me on the training ground some morning. Bring your own sword.”

That takes Alfred aback in astonishment. “Your Majesty,” he says carefully, “I don’t think that I could, for safety’s sake.” He can’t risk injuring the king, even by accident.

“Call me Renat, and it’s you or the captain of my guard,” the king says cheerfully. “I’m sure that Toris would like a break now and then. I promise that I am quite quick for my age, and nobody in this palace is going to lock you up if you do manage to give me a beating.”

Alfred realizes that he’s serious. He’s starting to like this man. “I hope it won’t come to that, Your M—Renat,” he says, grinning.

“We’ll see,” the king returns. “We’ll see.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, Ukraine is OOC and I promise that there is a reason.


	2. Steel

Alfred wakes to a knock on the outer door of his chambers. He rubs his eyes. His head throbs mildly, and he groans, remembering some of what had happened the previous night.

The feast had been fantastic. The table had been filled with foods Russi, Anglish, and colonial. Alfred had appreciated the gesture and eaten his fill, not one to let good food go to waste. The trouble, he reflects, had been the drink. He’d forgotten how much the Russi liked their vodka. King Renat had gone through an incredible amount of it, and Alfred had been foolish enough to think that he could keep up the pace himself. He’s facing the consequences now.

The knock comes again, and someone calls through the door, “Master Jones?”

Alfred scrambles out of bed, suddenly worried that he’s overslept on the first day on the job. Then he checks his magical alarm. Still functioning. He looks toward the curtained window. The light outside is very dim. Why is he being bothered so early in the morning?

Sighing, he pulls a robe on and goes to the door. “Yes?” he asks, cracking the door.

A servant, a short young man with nervous blue eyes, looks up at him. “His Majesty would like to extend an open invitation to his morning sparring sessions,” he says, bowing slightly as he presents a small card to Alfred.

Alfred looks at the card. It’s plain, with elegant handwriting curling across it. Alfred will admit that although he is quite adept with the spoken language, Russi writing is another story altogether. Luckily, there are only a few words on the paper, and they convey essentially what the messenger has already said aloud. “Thanks, uh—?” Alfred says.

“Galante. Raivis Galante,” the young man says after a pause. “I am His Majesty’s personal runner.”

Alfred nods, committing the name to memory. “Thank you, Raivis. You can go now.” He returns inside. So the king likes to get an early start on the day? Well, Alfred can get used to that, if there are any decent swordsmen here. 

He rummages through one of his bags and finds a potion to banish his hangover, and then he gets dressed quickly. He slides his sword out of its sheath and runs a hand down the blade. Then he resheathes it and straps it on.

When he arrives on the training ground it is busy already. The sun is barely showing, but there are guards running laps, doing push-ups, and sparring with one another. He spots the king stretching with members of his personal guard. They are all wearing surprisingly little for the weather.

“Alfred Jones!” Renat calls. Alfred trots over. “I sometimes train with the Guard for their full morning regimen, but usually my days are quite busy,” he explains. “Today will just be a short warm-up and sparring for me, longsword only. You’re welcome to stay longer. Toris will help you with anything you need,” he says, gesturing to the guardsman beside him.

“Toris Laurinaitis,” the man says, nodding courteously. His brown hair is tied back in a short, neat ponytail and he has careful, bright green eyes. “Captain of His Majesty’s Guard. It’s an honor to meet you, Master Jones. I wish you luck with your new post.”

Alfred shakes his hand. “Just Alfred is fine, and thanks,” he says cheerfully.

They warm up for another half hour, and then they gear up. “Do you have a net?” Renat asks Alfred, sliding a wide leather band onto each forearm.

Alfred looks around and realizes that everyone else is doing the same as the king. He has a couple of shield nets, both self-constructed, but they’re in his quarters. He should have guessed that he’d need one when Renat had told him that they’d be using real swords. He tells the king, sheepishly.

Renat raises his eyebrows. “This is Rus, Alfred. When we fight, we fight. Don’t think that we’ll go light on you just because it’s your first day,” he says with a laugh. Some of the guards laugh, too.

Alfred grins. Renat tosses him a pair like his own.

“That’s a royal sparring net,” the king says. “It’s been in use for a century in my family. It’s good magic. Treat it well.”

Alfred’s eyes go wide. “I couldn’t, Your Majesty,” he says.

“Renat,” the king reminds him. “Anyway, it’s only a loan. You’re not planning to damage it, are you?” he asks quizzically.

Alfred shakes his head.

“Then is there any reason not to put it to use?” Renat asks patiently.

Alfred puts the net on.

It _is_ good magic. He doesn’t like to usually use equipment spelled by others, but this is a piece of strong, reliable magic. The net is comfortable and discreet as it settles against his skin, and he knows that once he starts moving he won’t feel it at all.

The swordsmen all pair off. Alfred spars with Captain Laurinaitis first. He suspects that the man wants to gauge him before letting him fight anyone else, especially the king.

He loses to Laurinaitis, closely. Alfred doesn’t mind. The man is shrewder than he looks, and Alfred is rusty, anyway. He wins his next two matches with guardsmen, and then he takes a break.

The king is taking water on the side. He’s watching his men and women fight with an approving eye. Alfred studies him.

“Can I help you?” Renat asks after a minute, turning his head and lifting an eyebrow.

Alfred flushes embarrassedly. “Sorry, I was, um. Your sword. Those aren’t your colors, are they?” As soon as the words come out, he feels like slapping himself.

The king doesn’t seem to take offense. He angles his gaze toward his hand resting at the hilt. Most of the palace is draped in light blue and gold, but the scabbard at the king’s hip is detailed in silver and red and violet. “It was Ivan’s,” he says.

Alfred blinks in surprise. “Oh.” He doesn’t really know how to respond to that.

“He was always more the swordsman of the two of us. I never really picked it up until after he…died.” Renat looks up, meeting Alfred’s eyes. “He was my brother. I loved him. I never want to forget him, despite everything.”

Alfred nods soberly. He can understand the king’s sentiment, to an extent. He hasn’t seen his own brother in years, but he keeps every letter that he receives from him in a box that is very precious to him. Matthew isn’t exactly Prince Ivan—he is a gentle soul who wouldn’t harm a fly—but he doesn’t fault Renat for having the brother he’d had. He wonders at the strange depth of love that can allow for the capability to end a brother’s life and still mourn him.

“How about it?” the king asks, interrupting Alfred’s musings.

He starts, and then realizes that Renat has asked him if he wants to spar.

They drop their scabbards and take the ground. Alfred can see the experience in the king’s stance. The man is relaxed and confident as they engage.

The longsword is a weapon of war, not a duelist’s one-handed toy. The Russi practice regularly with both the longsword and the arming sword, and judging by the display today, they favor an efficient approach to swordsmanship. Alfred has yet to see an unnecessary flourish from any of his opponents.

He tests the king’s defenses cautiously at first, and then, as Renat shows no signs of faltering, he picks up the pace, striking faster, more unpredictably.

Renat hadn’t lied when he’d called himself quick for his age. He is quick enough to match Alfred stroke for stroke, and surprisingly skilled. Alfred soon realizes that as he is testing Renat, the king is testing him. He tries to lose himself to the instinct of the blade, but he can’t help thinking that he doesn’t know why he’d expected King Renat to be a quiet, composed man, because the man opposite him is intense, and dynamic, and merciless with his blade.

Where some schools teach a flashier style in order to intimidate, the Russi intimidate with their eyes and their bodies. Renat on the training ground is no exception.

Vaguely, Alfred becomes aware that a crowd is gathering to one side, sending encouraging cheers and whistles in their direction. He can’t pay attention to them, though. Alfred’s good, but experience is on the older man’s side. At some point, he realizes that Renat is following his pace, not the other way around. The match is lasting longer than Toris’s not because the king is a poorer swordsman than his captain but because he is _better_. Much better. The moment right before Renat slips under his guard he realizes something that almost makes him laugh: the king has been _toying_ with him.

The tip of Renat’s blade buzzes softly against the shield net over Alfred’s sternum for several seconds. Then the king steps back and rests the point against his boot.

Alfred takes Renat’s hand when it is offered. They shake. Renat is smiling, not smugly, but like he is pleased with Alfred’s showing. Alfred’s pleased, too. He will certainly be coming back here tomorrow. After all, he’s got to get back on top of his game so he can give the king a run for his money.

They retrieve their scabbards and head in to breakfast, together.


	3. Magic and Lonesomeness

Three weeks after his arrival in the capital, Alfred has yet to best Renat with the sword. The man is a genius not only with the longsword, but also with the arming sword and even the rapier, which he seems to disdain but uses with skill anyway. At hand-to-hand combat at least, Alfred manages to get the upper hand about half of the time.

He relishes the sparring sessions nonetheless. He and Renat have become regular partners, and they always end sweating and tired but smiling. There is a rhythm between them that always feels _right_ , no matter who emerges the victor of a match.

During the breakfasts that follow, they enjoy companionable banter. Renat has a quick tongue and a mind to match, and he is passionate about so many things.

“Do you think it’s possible to touch the stars?” Alfred asks one morning.

Renat doesn’t laugh at the question, or lift a mocking eyebrow, or change the subject. Instead, he looks thoughtful, and then, after a moment, he says, “Well, I don’t even know what stars really are; do you?”

Alfred has put quite a lot of thought into this. “Well, they’re very high up in the sky. You can see clouds pass in front of them, and you can see birds pass in front of clouds, so whatever the stars are, they’re very high, and probably pretty big, too,” he explains, nervously. The last time he’d presented this theory he’d been at a party at some Anglish lord’s house, drunk and unthinking, and he’d gotten laughed into the street.

But Renat’s eyes widen. He’s actually thinking about what Alfred has said. “Because they look small, but are so bright and far away?” he asks.

“Exactly!” Alfred exclaims. Nobody has ever understood his thought process so clearly before.

He’d come to Rusya City expecting to act as advisor, servant, protector. He is quickly finding that Renat is not looking so much for those things as for a friend and companion. He wonders if this is the relationship that he’s had with his past court wizards, but if that had been the case, why had they all chosen to leave eventually?

He doesn’t pry. If he is the first to enjoy the king’s friendship, then he can hardly complain.

•

Alfred’s daily routine begins with morning exercises and ends with dinner with any one of a thousand nobles in Rusya City, sometimes King Renat. He’s quickly getting to know the many rooms and halls of the palace and the people who live in them.

He has a workshop all to himself, in the palace. The space is _huge_ , generously stocked with materials he’d thought he’d have to request specially, and the equipment is top-quality. He soon finds that people here in Rus aren’t shy around wizards, and he quite prefers the way they treat him, with friendliness and respect rather than wary nervousness. Already half a dozen nobles have stopped in with requests for magical pieces, and a messenger from a shop in the city had dropped off an entire list.

“Individual commissions are yours to pursue or to not, per your discretion,” the king’s chamberlain tells him. “However, if the armorer or other servants of the crown require something on official business, you are expected to fulfill their requests.” The chamberlain, Eduard von Bock, is a very serious man. He adjusts his glasses constantly. Alfred is generally uneasy around him.

He spends a day inspecting the wards about the city and the castle. He takes the tour with Renat himself, who takes the day off to point out key points and explain Rusya City’s defensive strategy to him. The king is surprisingly knowledgeable about the wards and how they work. They’re not quite like ones Alfred has used in the past, but they’re similar enough that he easily figures out how to link his own energy to them, replacing the lingering energy from his predecessor.

Outside of his few formal duties, Alfred has a surprising amount of free time. He spends most of it in his workshop. An entire day goes to playing with his equipment. Once he’s familiar with his new tools, he starts working on replenishing his potion stock.

He has three pots chilling over ice when Raivis Galante sticks his head in the door. “Master Jones?” he asks timidly.

“Yeah, Raivis?” Alfred asks absently, watching the pots out of the corner of his eye. “Sit down. What can I do for you?”

The messenger sits down on a bench, looking eminently jumpy. “Can you tell me the difference between a wizard and a sorcerer?” he asks.

Alfred’s eyebrows go up. He’d been anticipating a request for a trinket or something of that sort, not _this_.

“You’re just the first wizard I’ve really spoken to,” Raivis says hurriedly. “I came into His Majesty’s service near the end of Master Ryzhkov’s time here and he was kind of intimidating so I never—”

“It’s okay, Raivis,” Alfred says, laughing a little at the younger man’s nervousness. “Curiosity’s good.”

The messenger nods, wide-eyed.

“Um. Where to start,” Alfred muses, grinding a piece of chalk to powder. “Well, all mages have the same gift. ‘Wizard’ is commonly used to describe a generally good mage, ‘sorcerer’ for an evil one, but that’s not really a good way to differentiate. I mean, what _is_ good and evil anyway?”

“Uh-huh,” Raivis says weakly.

Alfred continues, “The technical definition of ‘wizard’ is someone who uses tools to control magic. Spells, potions, runeswriting, things like that.” He gestures around the room. “Sorcerers, on the other hand, manipulate pure magic. That might sound more practical at first, but in order to do it, a mage has to imbue his very essence with magic. It’s a long, transformative process that gives the mage the ability to use magic at will. The thing that a lot of people don’t understand is that magic, when used in moderation, with the proper containments, can be a very useful tool, but in greater quantities it is toxic. The amount of magic that a sorcerer uses always corrupts, no matter how pure the heart beforehand. The sorcerers who do manage to control their power effectively are usually the ones with wicked souls to begin with. They can do some incredible things. Supposedly their magic can keep them alive and ageless for centuries. They can perform telepathy, or make themselves look like another person without potions or spells, or control wild animals at will,” Alfred says, losing himself in the explanation. “Legends also tell of something called mage’s armor. Supposedly a powerful sorcerer can manifest this armor that renders him nearly invulnerable and inhumanly strong. There are tales of armored sorcerers literally tearing each other to pieces. But that kind of power hasn’t been seen in a long time. It might only be myth. And despite all the power that a full sorcerer can access, it isn’t worth the cost to a person’s soul.” He stops, realizing that Raivis is trembling on the bench and looks even paler than before. “Raivis, it’s okay. You know that you’ll probably never meet a sorcerer, right? Everyone with the gift is made to train formally, and no respectable master would ever be so irresponsible as to allow a student to pursue sorcery. There probably isn’t a single sorcerer in this entire kingdom.”

Raivis doesn’t respond. He avoids Alfred’s concerned gaze for a few seconds, and then he gets up and flees.

“Raivis!” Alfred calls worriedly, but the messenger is already gone. “Weird,” he mutters and then, after a moment, goes back to work.

•

One night, after Alfred has dined with Renat, they are in the king’s quarters, and somehow the topic turns to Renat’s family.

“My father wasn’t a terrible king, but he was a fairly terrible father,” Renat is saying, gazing out the window. His hip flask, his constant companion, is in one hand, and though he hadn’t objected when Alfred had asked about his family, he’s been drinking ever since then. “My siblings and I were a constant source of disappointment to him. I was never good enough for him. He insulted me regularly; hit me until I was nearly an adult. He said that I didn’t have the right temperament to rule, that I would never be strong enough or ruthless enough. My family, the Braginsky clan, has never liked what it considers weakness. _Ivan_ was ruthless enough, but he was the second son. I sometimes wondered if Moroz would arrange for some accident to befall me so that Ivan could take the throne, but then Ivan’s gift manifested when he was twelve and that was the end of that.” He looks down into the mouth of his flask. “He hit Ivan and Natalya, too. They were too headstrong, not dutiful enough. After he got used to the idea of Ivan’s magic, he wanted him to be court wizard and Natalya to marry someone useful to the Russi crown. You can imagine how angry he was when neither of those plans worked out,” he says absently.

Alfred walks to stand beside the king. “He was wrong about you, too,” he says. “You’re a good king. You are strong, and beloved.” It’s the truth.

Renat takes another swig. Then he says, “Forgive me, Alfred. I’ve become maudlin. You’re good to indulge me.” He sighs. “I’m starting to get old, you know? I have little family remaining. The last time I saw my sister was at least five years ago. She has her responsibilities, after all. She has a kingdom of her own and two beautiful children and a _third_ husband who adores her. I don’t even have any real friends. I worry that I will be alone forever.”

Alfred forgets, sometimes, that the king is over fifty years old. His energy is so young, so passionate.

He is quickly learning that there are two Renats. There is the one that the public sees, the one with the gentle voice and patient eyes and agreeable smile, and there is the Renat he sees inside the palace, whose smile is sharper and younger and who has a razor for a mind. Alfred thinks that he could be well loved by the Russi people even with his more private personality and he doesn’t know why the king doesn’t let them see that side of him.

He says carefully, “Well, I don’t know about the other people you’re usually around, but I hope that you will consider me your friend, and that I can consider you mine as well.” It’s true that they haven’t known each other for very long, but Alfred is convinced that he and Renat are kindred spirits.

The king’s eyes flicker with some brief emotion, and then he smiles gently. “Thank you, Alfred,” he says.

“Listen, have you ever tried looking for a queen?” Alfred asks, trying to lighten the mood. “I’m sure you could court any woman in this kingdom. Haven’t you ever been in love?”

Renat looks away.

“You’ve _never_ been in love?” Alfred asks, partly teasing, but mostly appalled.

Renat looks away. There is only the slightest hesitation in his voice when he says, “No. Never.”

They talk a little more, but Alfred retires to his quarters soon after.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a bit filler, but we're going to get into the meat of it _very_ soon. Thanks for staying with me.


	4. Letters (Interlude)

The letters are packed tightly in a small wooden chest inside a larger chest that contains many other things. The wood of the box, which is one of a pair, is worn smooth from use. There are probably hundreds of letters, but Ivan has never counted them. New ones arrive periodically. When they stop, perhaps then he will count them.

He glares at the box resentfully, but he can’t keep that up for long. Eventually, he gives in and opens the lid. His hands fit comfortably into slight indentations on the bottom edges.

The oldest papers are soft, their words faded. Ivan sighs.

He is comfortable with bathing his hands in blood, but the thought of his fingers stealing what little ink remains on the oldest letters from his brother is a thought that pains him.

He misses Natalya and Renat. It’s been so long since he’s seen either of them face to face. He wishes that they could meet, all three of them. He knows that this is probably never going to happen.

He chooses a letter near the bottom of the stack.

•

_My dear Ivan,_

_The weather here in the south is lovely this time of year. It is so much warmer than in the city. Magdalena is showing the shore to me. The sea is beautiful, so calming and blue and serene. You might want to visit sometime. I confess, I sometimes think that I could stay here forever. Don’t tell Father. I think I’m falling in love._

_Your brother,_

_Renat_

•

_Dear Ivan,_

_How are your studies progressing? It’s become lonely in the palace without you, though I think perhaps the lords with daughters and sons are pleased to have you gone. Natalya is growing fast. I think she will be older than you realize when you return this summer. She says to tell you that she misses you very much and that she will always love you._

_Best,_

_Renat_

•

_Dearest Ivan,_

_I’m sorry that I haven’t gotten around to writing until now. As soon as I arrived, I was whisked away, totally against my wishes, by a beautiful maiden who’d stolen my heart and refused to give it back until I explored half the woods with her. I speak of Magdalena, of course. She is as lovely as I had remembered, and as generous and kind and clever as well. I know that I speak of her too much with you, but you are the only one I can confide in. I have missed her so much. Being with her is like breathing fresh air. You are laughing at how pathetic I am as you read this, I know, but perhaps you might come with me next time I come south, to meet my beloved?_

_Love,_

_Renat_

•

Renat will be fifty-two years old soon. That means that Ivan is nearly fifty.

He’s getting _old_ , at least by the usual standards. He doesn’t feel old. He doesn’t look old, either. He never will.

Renat will live for perhaps twenty more years. He is well past his prime, and Natalya is the same. His little sister has not been little for a long time. Ivan wonders what will become of him when his siblings are gone. He is already seen as a horrible villain by most who have heard his name. If— _when_ —he loses the few people he cares about, will he lose his control, as well? Will he give himself over to the shadows inside his heart and let them transform him into something truly monstrous? Ivan doesn’t know.

•

_Dear Ivan,_

_Father was not at all happy to hear that you had decided to quit your studies. He is mainly concerned about the fact that he will have to contend with Maksim as court wizard for longer than he’d expected, I think. I am for my part not fond of the idea of you pursuing dark magic, but I concede that you do have the strength and the will for it. Follow your own path, and if you are happy, then I am happy for you (though I do imagine when you return home you might wish to avoid crossing paths with Father when you can)._

_Fondly,_

_Renat_

•

_My dear Ivan,_

_I believe that I left the city too quickly to express my feelings, and though I am loath to admit it, there is a part of me that finds your plan appealing. I still do not know if I have the stomach for it (I know that you do, but as you say, I am too soft. Perhaps too soft to be king). I must consult Magdalena, and think. I promise that I am not fleeing permanently to the south. I will be back within the month if the weather is kind. Keep the roads clear for me if you can._

_Always with love,_

_Renat_

•

_My brother,_

_I am a married man now! I know that it was impossible for you to attend our small wedding, what with the turmoil in the city, but we missed you dearly, myself and M both. I hope that you are not too buried in duties. If you ever need assistance or relief, know that I have not abandoned you. You can call on me at any time. I owe you that much. But perhaps you are just as happy to be free as I am._

_Sincerely,_

_Your loving brother_

•

_My brother,_

_In your last letter you wrote of discontent. I am overcome with guilt for placing my burdens on your shoulders, but you should know that you are spoken of with great fondness whenever news comes, even if it is not your name they speak of. Perhaps one day you shall have the commendation you deserve for yourself, and in the meantime know that you will always have my respect and love._

_Sincerely,_

_Your brother_

•

Ivan has needs, like everyone else. He needs to eat and sleep and breathe. He needs water and air. Sorcerers in popular myth tear their own hearts out of their chests, but Ivan’s needs to beat. He needs love and laughter and sex. Less common are some of his other needs. Ivan needs power. He needs to control. He needs to rip and slice and tear to the music of terrified sobs and helpless screams and—

Ivan has been too alone for too long.

He needs— _desperately_ needs—a companion. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever be lucky enough to have one truly, but he can be optimistic, and he can be patient.

•

_My dear brother,_

_I am so glad to hear that you have met someone for whom you care! I do not see you often enough to know if the years have been kind to you, but I know that your heart must have been troubled by loneliness. I must caution you to be careful. Be gentle, my brother. He doesn’t know you yet, not truly, and you cannot deny that you can be cruel. Do not make him fear you, for his sake and for yours. I hope that you can tell him the truth some day._

_With love and wishes of good luck,_

_Your brother_


	5. Shadows

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [blinks] Did someone just turn out the lights?

Alfred wakes gradually one night, with a sense that something is very wrong. The moon is bright outside his window—he must have forgotten to close the curtains—but that is not the problem.

It is nothing he can put a name to. It’s just a feeling. But he gets out of bed and walks out into the hallway, anyway.

It’s dark and quiet. The palace late at night is calm, the lamps shaded. As he stands outside his door, a servant hurries by with a basket of laundry and nods to him deferentially.

Alfred returns inside, grabs a coat, and wraps it around himself. Then he goes to seek the captain of the Guard, on a hunch. He hopes that he won’t be waking Toris up, but the man often takes late shifts.

He only has to ask one guardsman to learn his location. He finds him seated at a wooden table in the kitchen, with Eduard von Bock. They’re sharing a bottle of vodka while the head cook and a couple of his assistants bustle around, already preparing for the next day’s meals.

“Master Jones,” von Bock greets Alfred solemnly. Toris nods wordlessly in his direction.

Alfred hovers uncertainly. The two really don’t look like they want company. “Is something going on tonight that I don’t know about?” he asks carefully.

The captain of the Guard eyes him silently. The chamberlain gulps down his glass and says, slurring his words slightly, “Nothing’s going on. Go to sleep. It’s far too late.”

“Too late,” Toris echoes, staring into his own glass. “Yeah, go to sleep.”

Alfred stares at them. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen either of the two truly drunk before. They seem to have already forgotten that Alfred is standing there. He leaves them pouring new glasses, still uncomfortable with the sense of foreboding he’d woken with.

He follows the feeling to the palace dungeons. The guards on duty there stand to attention when he approaches.

“Can we help you, Master Jones?” the one on the left asks politely.

Alfred scratches his head. “Uh, yeah, mind if I go down?” he asks, pointing to the door between the two, which leads to the stairs.

The guards shake their heads simultaneously. “Not tonight, sir, sorry. Captain’s orders,” the first says.

Alfred frowns. That seems odd, since Captain Laurinaitis is busy being miserably drunk in the kitchen. “Where is the captain? Can I speak with him?” he asks carefully.

The guard shrugs. “Yeah, he’s in the kitchen.”

So Laurinaitis probably actually had issued the order. Which leaves the _why_. “Is somebody doing something down there?” Alfred asks.

“No, sir,” the guard responds.

Alfred frowns. His feeling is only a feeling, he knows, but he can’t turn around now. “I really need to go down there,” he says.

“You can’t, sir,” both guards say simultaneously.

His frown deepens. He examines the guards, and after a moment he sees an odd, faint glimmer in their eyes. Quickly, he says, “Thank you, gentlemen,” and leaves.

He stops around a corner, a good distance away, and weaves a spell of invisibility for himself. The dungeon guards are spelled, and since he certainly didn’t do it, there must be another mage in the castle, one who doesn’t want anyone downstairs tonight. This is highly worrying.

Getting through the door will be difficult. Alfred may be able to pass the guards unseen, but they will see the door move if he opens it. He can open a short-distance portal from this side of the door to the other, but he’ll have to be fairly close, hence the invisibility. Unfortunately, he doesn’t know for sure if he can hold the invisibility spell while also opening a portal, without spoken words to support his spellwork. He’ll have to do it entirely silently.

Still, Alfred hadn’t been the best of Master Arthur’s apprentices for nothing.

•

The dungeon is dark tonight. The one time that Alfred had come here before, he’d been with Renat and Captain Laurinaitis. It had been a short stop during a tour of the castle, and a fairly unremarkable one at that, for a prison. But now, the unlit lamps and quietly shuffling noises from the cells and the walls make the place forbidding.

Alfred walks quietly down the main hallway until he hears a faint noise from one side. He opens a door carefully and follows the sound up a flight of stairs and down a short hallway. Then he stops.

Before him is a room with more cells. They are all empty, though the door to one of them stands open. There is a man kneeling on the ground, his hands bound behind him. Above him stands Renat.

The edge of the closest cell extends a little past the wall. Alfred crouches behind it as he processes the scene, bewildered.

The king is circling the prisoner slowly, eyes directed down toward him. Renat’s eyes are not friendly, or kind, or even the gentle neutral that they usually rest in. They are hard and cold, glittering with cruel pleasure. Alfred keeps still. Renat hasn’t noticed him.

“So,” Renat is saying, purring razor-sharp. “What are your masters planning?”

The prisoner spits at the king’s boots, wordlessly.

Renat sighs. The sound is dark and uncharacteristic, and Alfred shivers. “I could make you tell me,” Renat says, a smile in his voice. “I could reach into your mind and take what I want.”

Now Alfred jerks involuntarily. His knee knocks into the empty cage, and though the resulting noise is not loud, the next moment Alfred sees the king staring at him, eyes wide and surprised and dangerous.

He does the only thing he can think of. He stands, hiding his hands behind his back as he begins to weave a spell, and backs away slowly.

Renat hisses something under his breath, eyes locked on Alfred.

Something moves in the corner of his vision, and he starts backing up faster. Then freezing, shadowy hands reach for him from the darkened walls, tugging his own hands apart before he can react and forcing him to the ground. He curses, twisting out from under the cold shadows briefly before new ones rear up and hold him snugly to the cold ground as his fingers spark uselessly.

Renat walks toward Alfred slowly, watching him impassively as he struggles. Behind him, the prisoner slouches with clear relief.

“ _You’re_ a _wizard?_ ” Alfred asks in disbelief. “Renat, what is this?”

“You shouldn’t have come down here,” the king says quietly, ignoring Alfred’s words. His voice is authoritative, but his eyes are unreadable. “Go back to your quarters. When I am done here I will visit you. My pets will see that you do not disobey.” The shadows slither soundlessly and lift Alfred to his feet.

He is dragged away quickly, or carried, perhaps. Renat’s _pets_ are gentle with him once it is clear that he cannot escape. When they open the door upstairs, the two guards turn in surprise before tendrils of shadow reach out and caress their foreheads.

Alfred is set on his feet in the hallway and the shadows melt into the walls. The guards are now staring straight ahead. They don’t seem to see him.

He takes a step down the hallway. A small shadow pokes him in the leg admonishingly. He turns around, sighing, and heads in the other direction, toward the stairs that lead up.

He makes his way to his quarters, numbly. Whenever he attempts to take a path that leads in another direction, the shadows in the corners of the hallways stir warningly. Unbelievably, he crosses paths with not a soul.

When he arrives in his rooms, the door closes behind him.

Alfred sits down in a chair and drops his head into his hands, feeling suddenly exhausted.


	6. Masks

Alfred has time to think in his room, and he realizes that Renat must not be a wizard at all. That display of magic down in the prison had been a demonstration of dark power, not spellwork. So when the door opens and the king comes through the door alone, Alfred steps right up to him and says harshly, “You’re just like your brother, aren’t you, Renat?”

Renat laughs in apparent good humor, baffling Alfred. He shuts the door and makes his way over to the window. Then he removes the cap from his flask and says, looking at Alfred languidly, “Renat has been living in the south over twenty years now. He has a wife and four children. He writes sometimes. He’s told me that he’s very happy.”

Alfred swallows, shifting on his feet to disguise the fact that he’s inching toward the door. “You’re not Renat Braginsky?” he asks, heart pounding like a drum.

“Just borrowed some of his features,” the king says, gesturing toward his face with his fingers. He smiles. “He was really very generous.”

“You’re saying that King Renat just, what, _gave_ you his throne?” Alfred asks, casually taking another step back. “Why would he let a sorcerer be king of Rus?”

The imposter doesn’t contest the label, confirming Alfred’s guess. He takes a drink and looks out the window before replying, “Renat is too soft. He could never have ruled.”

Alfred feels a chill go down his spine. He wonders what kinds of things this false king has done behind the country’s back. Still, he keeps his back straight and asks, “So if you’re not Renat, who are you?”

The other looks back sharply, looking almost offended. “Ivan, of course.”

“ _Prince_ Ivan? Ivan _Braginsky?_ ” Alfred blurts out in horror.

The man spreads his hands. “Who else?” he asks, shrugging.

“But he’s, you—Renat killed—oh, _shit_ ,” Alfred says, realizing the problem. “Renat has _never_ been king? For all this time?” He keeps his tone level, but his mind is racing. What will the king—what will _Ivan_ do to him now that he knows the truth behind this immense, incredible lie?

“Dense doesn’t suit you,” the other says, tilting his head and frowning just slightly.

Alfred’s eyes narrow. “You, you’re—” he begins, but then the king’s features shift, not in expression but in shape. Alfred forgets what he’d meant to say.

The man standing before him is _young_ , perhaps a few years older than Alfred. His hair is paler than it had been a moment ago and his eyes are an intense violet. They’re focused on Alfred, and he feels uncomfortably pinned in place. So he stares back.

The lines of Ivan’s face are gentle, but there is the hint of hardness in them. There is a very slight flush in his cheeks. He is clean-shaven, his skin smooth and wholly unwrinkled. In the arch of his eyebrows is the suggestion of wickedness. Alfred realizes distantly that Ivan is _gorgeous_.

He tries to remember that he only appears the age he does, and that the fact that he hasn’t aged in decades means that he is a full sorcerer. It means that he is powerful.

Alfred has never heard of a sorcerer holding such an influential position as king. When Prince Ivan had gone dark, the mage community had had fits, according to Master Arthur. He’d already been unpredictable and cold-blooded, a killer before he’d ever touched dark magic, but he’d also been effortlessly charming and likable, and the wizard councils hadn’t been able to touch him because of his father’s position and influence. When his death had been reported, they’d breathed a collective sigh of relief. If any wizard were to now get wind of the fact that the sorcerer they’d long thought dead is sitting on the throne of Rus, Alfred doesn’t know what would happen. The Corps could be descending on Rusya City within days, he thinks, if he could get word out. He swallows, wondering if he’ll get the chance.

“How do I know that you didn’t kill Renat?” he blurts.

Ivan’s expression tightens. “I didn’t,” he says. His voice, too, is different now, smoother from the lack of age and pitched slightly lower than “Renat”’s. Even from two words, Alfred can tell that it’s a good voice, a compelling voice.

He has no way to know if Ivan is telling the truth, so he moves on and asks, as calmly as he can, “What are you going to do with me?”

The sorcerer eyes him unnervingly. “I’m not sure. The usual protocol doesn’t quite seem right,” he says. His tone gives little away.

Alfred takes a deep breath. “The usual protocol?” he asks. “The other wizards, they found out, too? Is that why they left?” But no, if they’d left knowing who Ivan was, they would have told someone by now.

Ivan smiles slowly. “You’re the first to find out. The others knew only when I wanted them to know. When they left, I made them forget me.”

Alfred hears his words for what they are: not only a boast of power, but also a warning. Ivan can take Alfred’s memory, render him even more helpless before him than he already is, if he wants. The only thing keeping him safe now is an unknown, something that is keeping _the usual protocol_ from applying to him. But what that something is, he doesn’t know.

•

He is confined to his quarters for all the next day. When he tries to turn the exterior door’s handle, his hand stops a short distance from it, and he cannot find any way to penetrate the barrier. The same happens when he tries to open his windows. He tries to spell them open, but his magic seems to have no effect.

Food appears at regular meal times, soundlessly popping into existence just inside the door. The fare is ordinary enough, probably actual selections from the meals served downstairs, and Alfred thinks it unlikely that any of it will be poisoned. If Ivan had wanted to kill him, he’d have done it before.

The day mostly passes in utter boredom. He has some books of his own that he’s already read, and some from the palace library, but they’d come at the recommendation of “Renat”, and Alfred cannot bring himself to open them.

He dismantles a table in his sitting room and uses a cantrip to sharpen the ends of the legs. He stashes two under the skirt of the sofa and two under his bed. Then he kills some more time by sharpening his other weapons, his swords and several knives.

His rooms overlook an interior courtyard of the palace. He can’t access the balcony, of course, but he can still see out. People bustle in and out of doorways all day. No matter how much he waves, nobody seems to see him.

A little after the sun goes down, he hears a metallic scrape in the outer door lock, and he quickly slides up to the wall beside the door. As soon as Ivan steps in, Alfred steps out swiftly and punches him in the kidneys, two quick, hard hits that make him double over and gasp—

But—that’s not Ivan.

Alfred stands there, confused, for only half a second, before realizing that the shorter, brown-haired man who’d opened the door is Captain Laurinaitis. “Sorry,” he says quickly as the guardsman is still recovering, but he can’t stay. The door is open, after all, and Alfred dashes out, or he tries. He stops abruptly just as he’s about to cross the threshold. No matter how hard he tries, he cannot physically leave his quarters. “Shit,” he says. He wants to scream.

Toris groans. “You won’t get out,” he grinds out. “He’s very thorough. Will you close the door, please?”

Alfred shoves at the invisible barrier with his hands. It does absolutely nothing. After a moment, he gives up and backs away, slamming the door shut as he goes. He levels a stern glare at Laurinaitis. “So you’re in on this, too?” he asks sharply, twiddling his fingers to make them glow faintly.

Laurinaitis goes not appear impressed. He moves over and drops down on the sofa. “If by _in on this_ you mean that I know the king’s secret, then yes. I was sent to answer your questions, should you have any, as well as to take your empty trays away,” he says, gesturing toward the small pile of dishes Alfred had accumulated over the day. His tone says _Why can’t this be someone else’s job?_

“Questions?” Alfred asks incredulously. “Okay, how come you’re helping a goddamn sorcerer pretend to be king of Rus?”

Toris squirms slightly. “I meant questions about him, not me,” he says.

“Answer, _Captain_ ,” Alfred says tensely.

“He doesn’t need any help,” Toris says.

“What?”

“You presume that, as his Guard captain, I must be essential to his hold on power. You are wrong,” Laurinaitis says flatly. “He could have an unknowing captain, if he wanted. He keeps me and the others because he prefers some advisors who know exactly who he is. We serve as voices of honesty to him. Perhaps we even keep him in check, sometimes. We are the closest he has to friends, but that doesn’t mean that he couldn’t do all that he does alone. You, of course, should know how powerful he is.”

Alfred’s eyes narrow in thought. “You said there were others. Who?”

Toris holds his gaze. “My father, Captain before me. Eduard von Bock, the chamberlain. Most recently, Raivis Galante,” he says.

Oh. That explains some things. “And they all know about Ivan?” Alfred asks.

“All but my father, who is dead,” Captain Laurinaitis says curtly. “He knew while he lived.”

Alfred feels a surge of pity for the captain. “Did Ivan kill him?” he can’t refrain from asking.

“No,” Toris says, without inflection. “He served him well. He was killed in an ambush while touring the western border. The king found the men who’d done it and dealt with them.”

“Was that how you got mixed up with him, then? Your father died, and you got pulled in as a replacement?” Alfred asks softly.

Laurinaitis suddenly looks angry. “Don’t pity me, Master Jones. My father prepared me for the king in advance. You are yourself in a far direr situation, and you have had no choice in the matter. If I were you, I’d worry about myself,” he says sharply.

Alfred’s throat goes dry. “Why, is he going to kill me, after all?” he asks, keeping his voice steady.

“He will ask certain things of you,” Toris says. “You would do well to obey him. He is not kind when he is angered. You may yet escape from him with only a fixed memory, in a few years.” He makes that sound like that’s a _good_ thing.

Alfred doesn’t want his memory taken at all. He wants to keep his memory and his will. He wants to fight, not to settle for the better of evils.

Toris shakes his head and stands up. “If you have no questions, I must leave now,” he says, awkwardly lifting the stack of trays and plates off of the floor.

“Wait, don’t leave,” Alfred says quickly.

Captain Laurinaitis is already out the door, pretending not to hear. The door shuts when he is gone.

“Fuck,” Alfred says.


	7. Visitors

In the morning, Raivis stops by.

He doesn’t unlock the door from the outside, unlike Captain Laurinaitis. He knocks, and Alfred debates not letting him in, but when he hears the messenger’s nervous voice calling his name, he sighs and gets the door for him.

Raivis scuttles in quickly, and then he stands timidly, shuffling his feet and folding and unfolding his hands.

Alfred stares at him blankly, and then he asks, a little cynically, “Can I help you with something?”

Raivis swallows. “I’m sorry,” he blurts.

Alfred says nothing.

“I mean, I probably couldn’t have done anything, but—I mean I’m not trying to make excuses but—Master Jones, I’ve never done this before. I only started working for Iv-Ivan a few years ago,” Raivis stutters. “I should have tried to warn you or something, but I was so sure that he’d find out—”

Alfred takes pity on him. “You couldn’t have done anything, anyway,” he says.

Raivis looks like he’s about to cry.

“Listen, Raivis, there’s something you can do to make it up to me, at least a little,” Alfred adds.

The younger man nods eagerly, smiling nervously.

“I want you to tell me everything you know about what Ivan did to Master Ryzhkov and the other wizards before me,” he says.

The smile drops straight off Raivis’s face.

•

Late the same day, Alfred has another visitor, this time the one that he has been anticipating.

“Evening,” the king says pleasantly as he steps into Alfred’s quarters. His disguise slips from his features almost as soon as the door clicks.

“Go to hell,” Alfred replies from his spot on the couch. He stares resolutely down at his book. Reading it, at least, is better than facing the murderous sorcerer who’d recommended it.

He hears Ivan seat himself in one of the armchairs beside the couch, a comfortable distance away. Neither of them says anything.

Finally, Alfred breaks. “What are you doing here?” he asks, turning his head slightly. Ivan has his fingers laced and resting under his chin. His eyes are fixed on Alfred, not in examination or calculation, but in relaxation, as if he’s just enjoying the view. Alfred doesn’t know what about what he’s doing the sorcerer finds so interesting, but he doesn’t like it.

Ivan unfolds his hands and places them in his lap. “I wanted to talk to you,” he says. “I thought about you all day yesterday. I don’t want to take your memory, but I couldn’t decide what to do with you before seeing you again.”

Alfred stares at him, eyes flat. “That’s nice,” he says sourly. “But no matter what you do, you won’t be able to win.”

Ivan’s eyebrows go up. “Win?”

“You can’t keep me here forever, if you’re not going to kill me. You’ll have to let me out, and you won’t be able to keep an eye on me all day, every day. I’ll let the truth be known,” Alfred says with hard certainty.

Ivan smiles indulgently, like Alfred is a whining child. “Who would believe you?” he asks gently, standing. He walks leisurely over to Alfred, who stiffens, and runs his hand through the wizard’s hair, mock-soothing.

After a shocked moment, Alfred bats the hand away. “Don’t touch me,” he snaps.

He hates to admit it, but the sorcerer is right. He can’t accuse the king of being Ivan Braginsky in disguise. He doesn’t have enough real allies here in court, not yet. Without any way to prove his claim, he’d look insane, or power-hungry. But if he can’t expose Ivan, he can still try to hurt him.

“Alfred,” Ivan begins, leaning down.

Alfred stabs him below the ribs, standing and using his legs to push upward with the knife he’d hidden in his sleeve. The blade slides in quickly and cleanly.

Then he feels a crack against the back of his skull as his vision flashes black for a moment. When his sight comes back, albeit hazily, he sees Ivan lowering an arm, the other hand clutching his front as he hunches over. Dazedly, he realizes that he’s been flung against the wall, and that there are shadows creeping over his body, chilling his skin and wrapping themselves around his neck.

Ivan is straightening, not looking at Alfred. The bloodied fingers at his torso twitch and stroke across the puncture, and the skin knits in seconds. _Then_ the sorcerer looks at him, and his expression is frighteningly angry. The shadows at Alfred’s throat tighten as Ivan walks toward him. He squirms, adrenaline flooding his system, but he is thoroughly restrained now, and he is beginning to feel light-headed.

The sorcerer stops in front of him, and Alfred tenses in uncertain anticipation, but Ivan’s expression is melting from rage to something else less easily discernible. His eyes are dark, probing, and he reaches a hand out to touch Alfred’s cheek, then slowly sliding it down to cup his jawbone. “What would you do if you managed to remove me? Reinstall Renat?” he asks, tone totally neutral.

The tendrils strangling him loosen to allow him to speak.

“Yes,” Alfred says finally, hating the way that his voice trembles on just that one word.

Ivan smiles tightly. “Renat doesn’t want to be king. He never has,” he says. His hand has wandered to Alfred’s now-bare throat, and his fingers flutter lightly at his Adam’s apple. “He was _relieved_ when I told him that I had a way for us to both get what we wanted. He has his family now and a quiet life, and I am answerable to _nobody_.”

Alfred swallows. The look in Ivan’s eyes is disquieting, wanting, even hungry. If he could recoil into the wall, he would, but he is already pressed firmly against it.

He hates the way that Ivan makes him feel. Trapped like this, he feel helpless, utterly at the other man’s mercy, and Alfred may be a powerful wizard, but Ivan is a powerful sorcerer, and he is far more experienced than Alfred. The only reason Ivan is here now instead of disappearing his dead body is because he wants something from him, and Alfred is too afraid, after his conversation with Raivis today, that he knows what that is.

Ivan releases him after a moment. The shadows wrapped around Alfred fade away to nothing and then, abruptly, Ivan, too, is gone.

•

_Don’t worry, Master Jones_ , Raivis had said. _Don’t worry, he wiped Master Ryzhkov’s memory after every time._

Alfred doesn’t want his memory wiped, doesn’t want there to be an _every time_ for him, but Ivan’s actions are making it look more and more likely that he will be treated the same as the previous wizards, after all. They’d all been powerful and clever, and Ivan had still easily overpowered them, had still done what he’d wanted with them.

Ivan doesn’t need to keep court wizards, other than for appearances, so he has put them to another use.

 _I think he_ raped _them_ , Raivis had said softly, trembling slightly. _But, I mean, he let them all go when he got tired of them, right? At least that’s good?_

Yeah. Alfred’s life is turning into a nightmare, but at least he won’t remember anything about being raped by a demonic mage once he gets discarded, and it won’t ruin his future job prospects. There’s that.


	8. Skins and Pages

“Do you have _nothing_ else to do?” Alfred snarls. “Don’t you have kingly duties to pretend to perform or something?”

Ivan is in Alfred’s rooms _again_ , carrying a lumpy bag over his shoulder.

“Is that my laundry?” Alfred asks sarcastically. “I was so sure that von Bock said he’d get it back to me tomorrow.”

Ivan frowns. “Must you be so belligerent?” he asks, setting the bag on a chair.

Alfred gapes at him. “You’re holding me _prisoner_ ,” he says angrily.

“Yes,” Ivan says. “I’m sorry about that, but I had to put certain precautionary measures into place. I’ll let you out tomorrow evening.”

That silences Alfred for a moment. He stares at Ivan in disbelief. “You’re lying,” he says flatly.

“Why would I need to lie to you?” Ivan asks cheerfully. He reaches into the bag and pulls out several books, stacking them on a side table. “You already know my most important secret and really, Alfred, I have nothing to gain from deceiving you.”

“Maybe you get a hard-on from being evil, I don’t know?” Alfred says. He wouldn’t be surprised if it were true, given who and what Ivan is.

Ivan laughs. The sound is so genuine that it throws Alfred, reminds him of King Renat before he remembers that King Renat isn’t real. He says, still smiling, “I’m not letting you go completely, of course. I’m keeping you as court wizard. You’ll be expected to continue with your duties as before.”

Alfred shakes his head. “What the _hell?_ ”

Ivan ignores his words. “In the meantime, some books to tide you over for today and tomorrow. I imagine it gets boring in here.” He pats the stack.

“ _You’re_ holding _me_ prisoner,” Alfred repeats.

“Yes,” Ivan says again, looking pensive. “Well, I must be off to perform my kingly duties, as you say.”

“Pretend to perform,” Alfred says sullenly. He doesn’t even know how to argue with Ivan anymore.

Ivan laughs again. “I am very attentive in my responsibilities, I assure you,” he says, adjusting his cuffs. Alfred notices distantly that although he wears clothes for the part of King Renat, they seem to be tailored to his true body. He wonders if his magic compensates for the difference. “Anyway,” the sorcerer continues, shrugging, “I’m already a bad person. Why should I be a bad king, as well?”

Alfred just shakes his head.

“I’ll come by again this evening,” Ivan says. “I hope you won’t be too lonely.”

“I don’t _want_ to see you,” Alfred snarls, his anger flaring up again, but it’s too late. Ivan has vanished, once again. Asshole sorcerer.

At least he didn’t touch Alfred, this time.

•

Alfred is really hating the fact that Ivan told him that he is coming back in the evening. After he spends another futile couple of hours banging on things and trying to perform any spell larger than a jinx, literally the only thing he has to look forward to is the next time the door opens. His life is turning into a series of visits, from Ivan’s various henchmen and from the sorcerer himself.

He thinks he might start going insane if he has to spend the rest of his life in here. Because, surely, Ivan isn’t going to let him out. It would be far too much of a risk to take, considering how much work Ivan seems to have put into making Alfred’s quarters a perfect cage for a wizard—but, Alfred remembers, he’d said _precautionary measures_.

He thinks. Physical measures, to keep him from leaving the palace, or just the city, maybe. And other measures, enchantments on the staff to prevent Alfred from causing suspicion, triggers to warn Ivan if Alfred is engaging in something risky. He’s only speculating, of course. Alfred doesn’t know what a full sorcerer is capable of doing, but if he’s right, maybe Ivan doesn’t see Alfred as a risk at all, even if he is free to roam. But perhaps this will give Alfred the slightest chance to escape, or to communicate with someone outside of Ivan’s influence.

He allows himself a little measure of hope, praying that he isn’t setting himself up for disappointment.

•

When Ivan opens the door, Alfred keeps his nose buried in his book. He doesn’t respond when the sorcerer greets him, hoping that he’ll just go away.

“So we’re back to this, then?” Ivan sounds slightly disappointed, but he seats himself in a chair all the same. “I can sit here and watch you sulk, but you won’t be getting rid of me so easily. I have plenty of free time tonight.”

Alfred keeps silent. After a while, Ivan gets to his feet. He moves around the room with a leisurely pace, examining Alfred’s furnishings, maybe. Alfred ignores him with as much indifference as he can muster.

He is just about to doze off from staring at the same page when Ivan asks, “Alfred. What do you think?”

Confused, Alfred lifts his head. A moment later, he is fully alert and standing, staring at Ivan in alarm.

The sorcerer is examining himself in a mirror, turning and twisting to check every angle, and _he is wearing Alfred’s body_.

Alfred covers his mouth in horror. “What are you—what the fuck?” he asks faintly.

Ivan eyes him. “Hm,” he says. Something subtle changes in his false appearance, probably some minute detail that Alfred can’t quite detect, but Ivan nods to himself with approval. He pulls a comb out of nowhere and starts raking through his— _Alfred’s_ —hair. “You have nice hair,” he comments.

Alfred blanches. He has his _voice_ now, too. The glint in his eye is the only thing that gives him away at all.

Ivan smoothes out his facial expression before saying, “Hey, don’t look so scared. It’s just a magic trick, okay?” His tone and his wording are precisely those Alfred would use. He’s almost having trouble remembering that it’s Ivan in disguise in front of him and not some strange manifestation of his own reflection.

“Why are you doing this?” Alfred grinds out.

Ivan resumes with the comb. “I don’t get to go out in public looking like myself unless I skulk about in the shadows, and King Renat can hardly spend an evening out on his own in the city. I usually use Eduard’s appearance when I want to go out, but it’s nice to have options,” he explains casually. “I’ve perfected Toris, too, but he’s often on duty in the palace, and it wouldn’t do for a guard to notice that he’s in two places at once. I used Andrey sometimes while he was here, but I have to start from scratch every time I change wizards, which takes time and effort.”

Alfred glares. “You seem to have managed pretty well,” he says acerbically.

Ivan laughs Alfred’s laugh. “Oh, no. Appearances are the easiest, you know. That’s just magic. Mannerisms are much more difficult. It requires a lot of effort to continuously pretend not to be oneself. I didn’t realize that in the beginning. I made plenty of little mistakes when I first took the throne, but luckily, people took them as the results of the terrible emotional trauma I’d obviously suffered.”

“Yeah,” Alfred says grimly. “Luckily.” He sits back down and pointedly looks back at his novel.

“You know,” his own voice says conversationally from above him, “None of my previous wizards have been so…athletic.”

Alfred’s head snaps back up. Ivan is shirtless, running an admiring hand down his—down _Alfred’s_ —abdominal muscles. “Stop that,” Alfred says, recoiling.

Ivan smiles, stepping closer. He circles behind Alfred’s chair and bends down so that he’s speaking right next to his ear. His arms slide down Alfred’s front casually, almost fondly, and Alfred stills. “You probably had your pick of the pretty young men back in Anglia, didn’t you?” Ivan asks in a murmur. “You aren’t courting anyone here, though, yet. Perhaps you should go out more often,” he purrs. “Have a night on the town, maybe.”

Alfred twitches. “You’re keeping me locked up in here—” he begins, before his eyes widen in realization. “No, you _can’t_.” He doesn’t know what exactly Ivan plans to do while wearing his face, but it can’t be good.

Ivan straightens, laughing. He pulls a nice shirt from the air and starts buttoning it. “Hm. I don’t think that blue is really your color.”

“Yes, it is,” Alfred snarls, standing again.

The shirt that Ivan is wearing over Alfred’s body shifts in hue. “You like red, too, don’t you?” he asks, admiring the color.

“Not your red,” Alfred snaps.

Ivan shrugs. “That’s unfortunate,” he says, not sounding apologetic at all. “You look good in it.” He dodges the punch that Alfred throws at him and heads for the door.

Alfred grabs his arm and digs his heels in. A moment later, he finds himself transported instantaneously across the room. “You _will not do this_ ,” he shouts. “You’re fucking _sick!_ You’re a _monster!_ ”

Ivan waves and shuts the door behind him, but in the instant before it closes, Alfred imagines that the sorcerer looks just the slightest bit troubled.


	9. Reflections

Alfred passes a sleepless night, lying on top of the covers in his bed, _imagining_.

He pictures Ivan sitting in a tavern in the city, laughing with a pretty girl or flirting with a handsome young man, having what he’d called _a night on the town_ , and wearing Alfred’s skin like a costume. He pictures a giggling couple darting down an alleyway or into a room in an inn, pictures his doppelgänger’s smile turning sinister as unnatural shadows rise and coil threateningly. He pictures rape, torment, murder.

Alfred almost never shows fear, but when he lies in bed that night, thinking about the fact that he’d come to Rusya City for an exciting, noble job, and he’d ended up nothing more than a toy for a sadistic sorcerer—well, he cries.

•

Alfred dreams. He is walking slowly through a darkened hallway, unlit torches casting strange non-light on the otherwise featureless walls. He holds his hands out in front of him cautiously, unable to see beyond a few feet in front of him.

He knows that he is dreaming. Many wizards tend to dream lucidly, with awareness, so he at least knows not to be afraid. Even the worst monsters cannot hurt him, in dreams. Still, the darkness makes him nervous.

He turns a corner. His surroundings do not change. He continues to walk, growing more on edge as he goes. Every so often, a junction presents itself, and he is forced to make a choice, but never does he arrive anywhere. This is a labyrinth of sorts, he realizes, one conjured by his mind for some purpose, but he has no idea what it is he is meant to achieve, if he is to find the center or the far edge or something else.

In the end, the something else finds him, not the other way around. As he is turning a corner, he bumps into someone. “Sorry,” he says automatically, before recoiling. It’s Renat, Renat with violet eyes and wearing the red shirt Ivan had worn the night before, and he looks surprised. Alfred takes another step back, staring at the man, before he realizes that, of course, this is just part of the dream. There is no consciousness behind the eyes staring at him, he sees now. “What do you want?” he asks the image.

The apparition points behind Alfred. He turns, jumping in surprise when he sees someone else standing uncomfortably close in the darkness. With the odd slowness of dreams, it dawns on him that he is looking into a mirror.

He turns back to not-Renat. “I don’t understand,” he begins, but in his place there is only another mirror, his reflection staring back at him. Bewildered, he turns in a circle, to discover that he is trapped in a tiny room with mirrors for walls. “Okay,” he says to himself, wondering at the possible symbolism, and then the reflection from the first mirror leans forward, out of the glass, and grabs Alfred by the elbow.

He tries to pull his arm away, but the reflection is tugging him relentlessly into the mirror. He starts to slide through the glass, which has turned to liquid, but then, suddenly, he sees that it’s not a reflection at all, that there are no mirrors, just the young Ivan from the portrait of King Moroz’s royal family running down yet another hallway, pulling Alfred after him.

This hallway is dim, but only as dim as the palace hallways are at night, and there are doors set in the walls. The hallway feels familiar to Alfred, though only vaguely, and as he runs after the teenaged Ivan the corridor seems to blur around them as they race with impossible speed. Then they are approaching a door far too fast. It swings open into a fuzzily featured room. Alfred jolts to a stop. Ivan is gone.

Before he can get his bearings, something slams into him, pushing him down onto—a mattress? Alfred shifts, getting a look at his attacker, and though the rest of the room is still dark, the features of the man bending over him are clear as day. It’s Ivan, clothed strikingly in crimson and silver and violet—clothed as a king in his own colors.

Alfred tries to sit up and scoot away, no longer interested in what his subconscious is trying to tell him. Dream-Ivan catches him by the ankle and tilts his head. “I want to be good to you,” he says, but his eyes say otherwise.

“You don’t know how to be good,” Alfred retorts, pulling away and scrambling off of the bed.

Ivan looks pensive. “You’re right,” he muses, almost thoughtfully. “I don’t.” He starts unbuttoning his shirt, unhooking delicate silver clasps one at a time. There is only one layer of cloth, and underneath, Alfred can see smooth, pale skin slowly becoming exposed.

He searches the room for an escape, but the door is gone, there are no windows, and the furniture is as shapeless and undefined as before.

“Alfred,” dream-Ivan murmurs, voice husky.

He turns, only to be pushed back against a wall by the specter of the sorcerer, violet eyes devouring him with their gaze. Frozen in shock, he does nothing when Ivan’s image moves close, lips parted slightly.

He is expecting a kiss, so it comes as a surprise when he sees the flash of fangs before Ivan buries his teeth in his throat.

There is no real pain in dreams, only a weak simulation of it, but Alfred still shoves the apparition away. Ivan stumbles away, blood dripping from his teeth. He puts a hand to his mouth and stares at it with curiosity.

Alfred is staring, too, but not at the blood. Shirtless, Ivan is all hard lines and firm muscle, but in the middle of his chest there is a hole, a gaping cavern where his heart should be.

“Don’t worry,” Ivan’s voice says, as if from a distance. Alfred looks at the man’s red-stained fingers and teeth. The dream image points at the blood with his unsullied hand. “It’s not yours,” he says, smiling.

•

Alfred gasps awake to tangled sheets and sunlight streaming through his windows. He must have fallen asleep some time in the morning, and now there are already two trays of food in his front room when he stumbles out.

He grabs a pen and paper to record as much as he can remember, writing while he eats, not paying attention to the food. When his pen finally slows, he slumps in his seat, staring at the scrawls, trying to make sense of it all. Wizard dreams can be premonitions, spiritual reminders, warnings, or protections. They are almost _always_ important.

He starts with the obvious: his mind is focusing on Ivan. The man had made three separate appearances in the dream, if he counts not-Renat. The most real of the three had been the third, the one with the hole for a heart and sharp fangs in his mouth. The last is not literal, he knows. There are vampires in this region of the world, but the only thing Ivan has in common with them is his paleness and—Alfred hesitates to acknowledge this, but he must be honest with himself—his beauty. He is not fragile, as they are, and the real Ivan lacks the obvious—fangs. Anyway, vampires exercise very limited magical abilities. Ivan is not a vampire, not literally, at least. But blood is an important symbol itself. Blood is life, blood is power. Alfred notes this down and moves on to the next thing: the missing heart.

He has heard stories of sorcerers cutting their own hearts out, but he is inclined to disbelieve this. It is probably possible to live without a heart, with the right magical support, but there are no advantages that Alfred can think of to having one’s heart outside of one’s chest. The obvious metaphorical implication, on the other hand, is much easier to swallow.

The bed and Ivan’s actions preceding the bite, Alfred writes off as his subconscious speaking to his fear of rape.

He passes most of the afternoon in deep thought, analyzing his dream and every element from it. When he runs out of blank paper, he groans. Analysis is all very well and good, but as he stares frustratedly at his sheets and sheets of writing, he realizes that nothing in there will help him escape.

•

The door opens not long after his dinner tray appears. Alfred is glumly sitting at his table, eating. He glances up briefly before returning to his food.

“Hm. You’re not in a good mood,” Ivan notes.

Alfred grunts. “I wonder why,” he says flatly.

“Cheer up,” Ivan says lightly. “Your confinement ends tonight.”

Alfred looks up. He’d forgotten about that, disbelieved it, even.

Ivan is turned away from him, his palms flat against the wall. Suddenly, Alfred feels the odd sense of a single pulse go through the room, and he stiffens, feeling that something has changed. Then he relaxes, realizing instinctively that the restrictions on his magic and the barriers in his rooms have been lifted. “Oh,” he says blankly.

Ivan turns toward him, eyes narrowing. “You don’t look well,” he comments.

“Didn’t sleep well,” Alfred mumbles. He doesn’t know why he’s telling the sorcerer this.

Ivan examines him more closely, coming nearer. “You aren’t sick—” he begins.

Alfred clenches his hands, slamming them down onto the tabletop, suddenly angry. “What did you do?” he demands to know.

One pale eyebrow arches. “I beg your pardon?”

“Last night,” Alfred spits. “Did you kill someone?”

Ivan looks taken aback. “Why must you assume that I killed someone?” he asks.

Alfred crosses his arms, sitting back. “Well, what did you do with that guy you were, uh, questioning the other day? When I found you?”

Ivan hesitates. After a moment, he admits, “I killed him.” Then he frowns. “How would you know that?”

“I made an educated guess,” Alfred says, sourly. “You have a reputation.” He presses on. “So what did you do?” He is dreading to know, but know he must, for his sanity’s sake.

The sorcerer is smiling now. “Why don’t you guess,” he purrs, leaning forward on the other side of Alfred’s table, long fingers spread flat.

Alfred growls under his breath. “I’m not playing games with you,” he says in as measured a tone as he can.

“And I have no need for games,” Ivan says easily. He shrugs. “Fine. Do you want me to tell you what I did?” He walks around the table to stand beside Alfred, or, rather, behind him. He cups one hand under Alfred’s chin, tenderly, and in the other hand wordlessly summons into existence a small, oval looking glass that he holds in front of Alfred so that they can each see both of their faces, Ivan’s right above Alfred’s.

Alfred stills, no longer angry, now a little afraid.

In the mirror, Ivan looks contemplative. They are both rather still, giving the reflection the feel of an odd double portrait as Alfred stares into his own eyes. Then Ivan breaks the spell. “Do you want to know what I did with your face, last night? What I did with your body and your hands, Alfred?” he murmurs. His hand releases the chin and passes quickly between Alfred’s face and the mirror, like a flourish from a magician’s trick. It brushes his lips and the tip of his nose as it goes.

Alfred shivers involuntarily, but he says, “Yes,” firmly. He twists to look at Ivan. “Do your worst,” he says hardly.

Ivan smiles softly. “What’s done is already done, Alfred,” he chides, lifting a finger. “Even I cannot change the past.”

“ _What did you do?_ ” Alfred shouts, standing up so that he is only inches away from Ivan. “Torture people? Destroy minds? Stomp on babies?” He realizes, belatedly, that he is gripping the front of Ivan’s silk shirt, and worry enters into his mind.

The sorcerer’s smile stays, only widening a little. “Nothing,” he says. “You have such an active imagination.” His words are so unexpected that Alfred lets go and stumbles back, tripping over a leg of his chair. The tone, too, takes him off guard. There is light mockery in there, yes, but also, incomprehensibly, admiration.

“What?” Alfred blurts.

Ivan is already walking away, toward the door, but he looks over his shoulder to say, “Nothing. I did nothing.” With that, he leaves. This time, the door stays open, conspicuously so.

Alfred stares after him, forbidding himself to hope, and failing just a little.


	10. Keys

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it's been...a little over a year. Oops and sorry.
> 
> The good news is that I still like this story a lot and have plenty of disjointed material to deploy in the future. The bad news is that this (while it is at least an update) is a pretty boring chapter.

“Master Jones! It’s so good to see that you’re well again!”

“How are you feeling, Master Jones? We’ve been missing you.”

“Nice to see you up and about again, Master Jones!”

Alfred dodges between packs of courtiers eager to congratulate him, it seems, on his recovery from some unidentified sickness. The official excuse for his recent absence from court is so unoriginal he wants to gag, and all he wants is to eat a quick breakfast and retreat to his workshop.

When he finally reaches the table, he realizes with a sinking heart that he’s going to have to sit beside Ivan. He is still the highest-ranked advisor to the king, despite the events of the past few days, and as such he is expected to sit at the king’s right hand.

Ivan is already eating, wearing Renat’s face and talking cheerfully to some noble couple that Alfred only vaguely recognizes. He notices Alfred immediately.

“Alfred! Finally back on your feet, I see,” he says, smiling. “It’s good to have you back.”

Alfred forces a somewhat grim smile in response. “Thank you, Your Majesty,” he says. He is _not_ calling him Renat.

He eats as quickly as he can, ignores Ivan when he tries, once, to engage him in conversation. Several of the nearer courtiers make disapproving faces at his rudeness. He wants to scream at them, to stand on the table and shout _Your king is an evil sorcerer, assholes_ , but he doesn’t. He isn’t suicidal. Still, it takes all he has to eat with civility, knowing who is really behind the kind face to his left.

He leaves the table quickly, muttering something about still not feeling well, and runs to his workshop.

When he arrives, he is surprised to see that everything in the workshop seems to be untouched. Ivan isn’t concerned about him constructing explosives or poison gases or magical weapons, it seems.

Alfred sighs. He has no ideas, he realizes. He needs a plan. Maybe several.

He goes back to his quarters to retrieve some of his old magic texts, and then he braves the palace library to snatch a grimoire or two and some history books, even though he doubts that Ivan would keep books holding information that could be used against him. He is fortunate enough to not run into anyone he knows, and makes it back to the workshop without incident.

He’d described sorcery to poor Raivis Galante some days ago, but knowing the definition is not the same as understanding how it works. He needs to know Ivan’s limitations, his weaknesses, if there are any.

The books are little help. They refresh his memory: wizards can become sorcerers through intensive studies of dark and powerful magics, combined with performing rituals on themselves to transform their bodies and minds. They saturate themselves with magic. According to the texts, the required rituals and incantations are lost to ancient history, but Ivan must have managed to get his hands on them somehow, and other sorcerers _have_ popped up over the ages.

If there is scant information on the nature of sorcerers, there is even less about their weaknesses. Scattered in the histories are vague accounts: a tale of two sorcerers killing one another in battle, a magical storm that leveled a village of dark magic worshipers, a spell performed by seven wizards that supposedly successfully neutralized a single sorcerer. This last seems promising, but there are no details about the spell’s particulars, nor does the book mention the names of either the sorcerer or the wizards. Later, he finds another, similar story that begins with the sorcerer performing a ritual to harness the wizards’ powers to her own, and ends with the wizards joining forces to destroy themselves along with the sorcerer.

The nebulous qualities of the stories, and their discrepancies, do not particularly surprise Alfred. No sorcerer has arisen to be a true threat for centuries, he is sure. All of the most recent cases of _going dark_ have been quickly put down by the councils, never kept alive to study.

So the books are little help, but Alfred has nothing else. He’d rather study books than study the live sorcerer sitting on the throne of Rus, and they keep him busy, his mind occupied enough to forget that he is constantly at Ivan’s mercy.

He skips lunch and dinner, not wishing to venture back out into the palace, and he lets himself lose himself in books and the desperate belief that there must be some way to escape Ivan’s grasp.

•

He wakes up to someone murmuring his name. His cheek is pressed against the hard edge of a book cover.

“What?” he asks groggily, lifting his head. He jerks upright when he sees who’s standing next to him. He spits, somewhat slurredly, “Get out.”

Ivan leans on the table, casual and unaffected. “Fascinating reading material,” he says mildly, tapping a book cover with a pale finger.

Alfred stands, defensive. “How did you get in?” he asks accusingly. “Did you break the wizard’s lock?”

“No,” Ivan says calmly. “It let me in.”

Alfred crosses his arms. “So you tricked it,” he says flatly. Inside, he is panicking. Wizard’s locks aren’t supposed to respond to any but the programmed magical signature. What if Ivan can replicate Alfred’s?

“I passed through it the same way you would,” Ivan says. The next thing he says takes Alfred by surprise. “That lock will always let me in. I built it myself. This workshop was mine before it was anyone else’s.”

Alfred’s eyes widen. After a moment’s consideration, he realizes that he should have guessed this. The workshop had been much nicer than he’d expected when he’d first arrived. It almost lends itself to exploration, not only the functions necessary for a court wizard. But if it had been made for a sorcerer prince—a wizard prince, really—well, that makes sense. “It’s a pretty good lock,” he says grudgingly. Still, he doesn’t know if he’ll ever feel quite as comfortable working here, knowing that Ivan had done the same, even many years ago.

Ivan lifts his eyebrows at the compliment. “I was a pretty good wizard,” he says, smiling faintly.

“In one sense,” Alfred says, reverting to bitterness.

“True,” Ivan admits. He shrugs. “I still must perform spellwork at times. I maintain the foundations of the city’s protective wards, as well as the border fortifications, but of course they must appear as wizardry from the outside, and I prefer to do certain things myself, you understand.”

“Sure,” Alfred says flatly.

Ivan examines him, and Alfred refuses to look away from that piercing violet gaze. He is surprised to find no malice in it.

“You should go back to your room,” Ivan says finally. “Get some rest.” He sounds nothing but sincere.

Alfred glances away finally. He doesn’t know what time it is, but he’s guessing that it’s well past midnight. Still, he doesn’t want to give Ivan even the slightest satisfaction. In the corner of his eye, he sees Ivan come a step closer.

“I really am not bent on making your life hell, Alfred,” the sorcerer says softly. “You may not believe it, but I have no intent to hurt you.”

Alfred looks back and glares narrowly. “Rape counts as hurting, asshole,” he mutters.

Ivan’s eyes widen. “I haven’t raped you,” he says after a moment, sounding surprised.

“You will, though, won’t you?” Alfred asks flatly. “Just like you did to Master Ryzhkov and the others before him.”

“Where did you hear that?” Ivan asks. He isn’t admitting, nor is he denying.

Alfred hesitates. He doesn’t want to get Raivis in trouble.

Ivan’s expression hardens. “Raivis. He’s been talking to you, hasn’t he?” he guesses. “Neither Toris nor Eduard would have been so indiscreet.”

Then it’s true. Alfred folds his arms. He feels irrationally disappointed in the captain and the chamberlain for their complicity, but he knows that they can’t do a thing against Ivan, no more than he himself can. “You don’t even feel guilty, do you?” he asks, not looking at the sorcerer.

In the corner of his vision, Ivan’s head tilts slightly. “Guilt serves no purpose,” he says. “In the minds of the powerful, all it does is take up space.” His tone is completely nonchalant. Alfred can tell that he truly believes what he’s saying.

“You’re insane,” Alfred says flatly. “And wrong.”

Ivan shrugs. “If you like,” he says, looking unconcerned.

Alfred grits his teeth. “Why are you still here?” he asks.

“Why are you?” Ivan asks neutrally. “It’s late. You can continue plotting against me in the morning. Go to sleep.”

Alfred won’t let the smug bastard tell him what to do. “No,” he says flatly.

A flash of annoyance slips through the sorcerer’s calm exterior, and Alfred feels a small flash of triumph. “You enjoy your little rebellions, don’t you? You didn’t take any meals after breakfast either, don’t think I didn’t notice,” Ivan says, leaning closer. “I understand, I truly do,” he says, but his eyes are cold. “If you choose to weaken yourself in this way, I will not stop you. I do not need a strong court wizard. Do you understand?”

Alfred manages to keep from recoiling at the sorcerer’s words. “Oh, I understand,” he says bitterly.

“I’m not sure you do,” Ivan says quietly, but he turns and leaves the workshop at last with no more than a final look of irritation in Alfred’s direction.

Alfred waits until he’s certain that the sorcerer is gone before he heads back to his quarters.

When he finally sleeps that night, if he dreams, he doesn’t remember it when he wakes.


End file.
